Art After the Fall: Why Creation Still Matters When Commerce Doesn’t

I first encountered Adorno and the Frankfurt School in my sociology courses. Their strict insistence that art must exist apart from reality — standing outside the system so it could critique it — struck me as somewhat ludicrous at the time. It seemed impractical, even a little self-important, to demand that art maintain such absolute purity. After all, artists live in the world like everyone else. Bills need to be paid. Art that speaks to reality surely must also be entangled in it.

But the advent of generative AI, and the impact it has begun to have on the creative world, perhaps reframes that old argument. As AI accelerates the mass production and commodification of artistic work, something interesting happens: the Frankfurt School’s original position starts to seem, if not entirely correct, at least more understandable.

When mass-produced simulacra flood the landscape — cheap, frictionless, and endless — the idea of art as an act of resistance, something fundamentally apart, starts to feel not pretentious, but necessary.

Though I’m hesitant to align fully with any philosophical tradition so deeply rooted in Marxist theory — and wary of the ideological weight that often comes with it — I can't deny that the moment raises an important question:

When art can no longer reliably serve commerce, does it, for the first time in a long time, return to its truest purpose?
Is the act of creation, free from external reward or validation, not a loss, but a kind of liberation?

I thought a lot about that as I worked on The Wake of Expectations and A Pleasant Fiction. Both were created with little to no concern about commercial viability. I’m well aware of how that lack of concern has impacted — and will continue to impact — my ability to profit from these works. But profit was never the primary objective. That’s not a point of pride or a way to place myself above anyone else. It’s simply the truth.

I want to be clear:
I have no antipathy toward professional artists who make a living through their craft. In fact, as reflected through Calvin’s journey in my books, I’m envious of them — envious of anyone who was able to build a life around their creative work. There’s nothing impure or wrong about wanting to survive by doing what you love.

But the inevitable collapse of that market — the difficulty now facing artists across so many fields — isn’t about merit or fairness. It's simply reflective of the same pattern that has played out for blue-collar workers over generations: when new technologies emerge that make what you do no longer a viable commercial alternative, the world doesn’t mourn. It moves on. It’s no different than trying to protect dial-up internet services or printed yellow pages. Clinging to the past, however understandable, eventually becomes a kind of futile act — a last stand against forces too large to resist.

That’s not to say there’s no path forward for creative professionals. Opt-in licensing models — where artists allow their work to be used for AI training under clear terms and compensation — are emerging as a possible solution. In many ways, it's the most viable path left to reward creative people for their contributions. But even that looks suspiciously like the streaming economy that recording artists were pushed into over the past two decades: a model that rewards volume and scale far more than originality or depth. And just as with streaming, it’s likely to become a game of survival for most, rather than thriving.

That reality is instructive. If even the best recording artists could only secure a modest share of value under streaming, then it’s reasonable to assume that visual artists, writers, and creators of all kinds will face similar compromises. Which only reinforces the underlying truth: the purpose of art must return to being the act of creation itself.

At the same time, I firmly support efforts to secure fair compensation for legitimately original work. Artists deserve the right to benefit from what they create, when and where that’s possible. But compensation cannot be the reason we create — or the measure by which we decide whether the creation was worth doing.

I wrote these books because they needed to be written. Because they existed within me and had to be realized in the form they now take. My work exists as it was intended to exist, and while I hope it resonates with the right readers, I’m not concerned about it failing to resonate with the rest. I’m certainly not claiming my work is flawless. It’s not. But it’s mine.

In a way, perhaps that’s the only real test left.
Not whether it sells.
Not whether it trends.
But whether it stands — fully, imperfectly, honestly — as a creation for its own sake.

Javier

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